


[ Day Eight ] Aid

by MacBean



Series: January Sherlock Vignette Challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacBean/pseuds/MacBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blast of cold air and a change in the traffic's volume signalled the opening of the front door of Angelo's. Hope rose in Sherlock's chest. He glanced up from his wine glass carefully, just out of the corner of his eye, so it didn't look like he was looking, and his heart sank again. <i>Just Lestrade</i>, he thought. Curiosity and a little bit of dread quickly replaced his disappointment. Lestrade? What was Lestrade doing at Angelo's? He could see the other man weaving his way surprisingly gracefully through the mostly empty tables toward him and he kept his gaze fixed forward, not wanting to give any sign of invitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[ Day Eight ] Aid

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [(Day 8) Chip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/631391) by [mydwynter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter). 



> I decided to play along with Mydwynter's vignette-a-day for January in an attempt to jump-start my solo writing again. Also, I thought it'd be interesting to see where our brains go with the same prompts, since we write together so often.
> 
>  
> 
> January 08 Prompts: Sherlock, Lestrade, magical realism*, Angelo's, "beer."
> 
> *I love magical realism when that's what a work is originally, and the characters are introduced to me in that setting. But today we discovered that I don't just shy away from other people's magical realism fanfic, but I have a pretty visceral reaction to trying to make myself write my own. So when that's a prompt, it's been decided I'm allowed to ignore it. Maybe next time I'll turn it into parlour tricks just for shits and giggles.

A blast of cold air and a change in the traffic's volume signalled the opening of the front door of Angelo's. Hope rose in Sherlock's chest. He glanced up from his wine glass carefully, just out of the corner of his eye, so it didn't look like he was looking, and his heart sank again. _Just Lestrade_ , he thought. Curiosity and a little bit of dread quickly replaced his disappointment. Lestrade? What was Lestrade doing at Angelo's? He could see the other man weaving his way surprisingly gracefully through the mostly empty tables toward him and he kept his gaze fixed forward, not wanting to give any sign of invitation.

"Oi, Sherlock!" The cheer in his voice was obviously forced. Sherlock made no reply. But, apparently, Lestrade was not going to be put off. "Can I sit here?" he asked, putting his hand on the back of the chair across from Sherlock. 

"I'm sure you _can_ ," Sherlock all but sneered.

Lestrade ignored the attitude and slid into the chair, offering a smile. Sherlock thought it was an insipid expression, but he supposed most people would find it charming. He gave a tiny sigh. "What do you _want_ , Lestrade?" He sounded bored.

"Want? Why do I have to want anything? I was in the neighbourhood and saw you thr—"

"Nonsense," Sherlock interrupted, waving the flimsy excuse away with a hand gesture. "You are never in this neighbourhood unless a crime has been committed, or you are looking for me—most usually, both. And since you seem to be in no rush, the former is certainly not true, which means you were in search of me for another reason. Given your feelings toward me, I can only assume it is a very specific reason, and no other's help would do. Please do not waste my time; what do you want?"

A frown creased Lestrade's forehead for a moment. "Well, if you're going to be like that..."

"I am," Sherlock said flatly.

The frown came back and stayed a little longer—but so did Lestrade. He got Angelo's attention and ordered two pints, changing his mind and amending it to "No, four," after another glance at Sherlock. Then he folded his arms on the table and leaned toward Sherlock. "Look, I wouldn't bother you, exc—" Sherlock interrupted with a snort. Lestrade scowled faintly and continued. "I wouldn't bother you, except some of the guys were talking about how your work has slipped the past week or so. I didn't say anything to them about it, but I thought..." He hesitated and shifted uncomfortably. The pause stretched longer as Angelo brought their beer over, and tried to talk both men into eating something. When he finally left them alone again, Lestrade rubbed a hand through his hair and took a long drink before speaking again. "I thought you and John seemed to be...cold." When Sherlock met Lestrade's questioning gaze with a blank stare, he tried to explain more. "I don't mean to us. I mean...to each other." Sherlock still only stared. 

Lestrade sighed and threw the hand that wasn't on his beer in the air. "Fine," he conceded, and sat back to drink moodily, mentally scolding himself for a job poorly done.

"Don't pout," Sherlock instructed after a few long silent moments.

Lestrade nearly snorted beer out his nose. "Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black, I—"

"I am _not_ pouting."

"Only you are, too," Lestrade said defiantly. "You're sitting there like a boy's had his puppy stolen. You're pouting and brooding and sulking and—"

"Those all mean the same thing."

"You're doing it that much!"

Sherlock scowled.

"You see!?" Lestrade was nearly flailing his arms. 

Sherlock sighed and folded his own arms over his chest to avoid doing anything that would make him look as ridiculous as the man across the table from him. "Fine. I'm in a less than cheerful mood. What business is it of yours?"

"What business?" Lestrade asked, sounding a bit confused. "Well, I suppose it _is_ my business, when your sour moods affect your work. But I'm here out of..."

He trailed off and Sherlock filled in the rest of the sentence for him. "...a sense of duty?"

"No."

Lestrade's tone was strange and it made Sherlock look up at him sharply. His eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion. "No?"

"No. I went to your flat first. I wanted to...check. Just check if you're all right." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and waited for him to go on. "John said you'd gone out. When I asked where, he said he didn't, um. Know."

"You're a poor liar," Sherlock said, carefully keeping his tone even. "He said he didn't care."

"Well, he didn't mean it."

"Are you sure?"

Their eyes met over the table. Sherlock's face was arranged to show no emotion. Lestrade's was a mix of confusion and concern. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm sure." 

They held eye contact until Sherlock looked away and seemed to address the wall as he spoke. "I'll ask again, what do you _want_ , Lestrade?"

Lestrade downed the last of his first pint and pointed the empty glass at Sherlock. "Listen. I've worked with you a long time now. You're a miserable know-it-all, you're smug and superior, inconsiderate, interfering, heartless—"

"I have no idea why anyone would ever want to divorce you."

"— _sarcastic_ , and an all-around arse. But over the years I've gotten used to that, and I... Well, I noticed the downturn in your work, but I came to see if you were all right because I was concerned about _you_. Sherlock the person, no matter how awful, not Sherlock the investigative tool."

Lestrade's expression was so openly worried that he'd further alienated Sherlock or set himself up for ridicule that Sherlock didn't bother masking his own surprise. "Really. You were concerned about me. Not ... John?"

Now it was Lestrade's turn to turn his face into a blank mask. He'd gotten more than mushy enough with Sherlock to last a lifetime. He wasn't about to say he thought John showed more emotion than Sherlock, but Sherlock felt more emotion than John. "Not John," he replied.

Sherlock eyed him for several long moments. Then he reached out for a pint, took a long drink and looked at it when he set it back down on the table. "Thank you," he murmured eventually. "I'm fine. Now."


End file.
